


Penitent Necromancer

by LawrenceKinden



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cane, Exorcism, F/M, Fantasy, Magic, Penitent, Possession, Religion, Spanking, Spirit - Freeform, Supernatural - Freeform, Switching, Western, Whipping, ghost - Freeform, necromancer - Freeform, soul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 19:23:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7451107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LawrenceKinden/pseuds/LawrenceKinden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary MacTavish is drawn to death. [Story Contains Spanking]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penitent Necromancer

In high, hot summer, the dusty main street was white and gold and hazy, like a desert horizon. Mary MacTavish sat on the boardwalk outside her father’s chapel, legs swinging over the space between boardwalk and street. She shaded her eyes against the blistering sun, the better to see the two men squaring off: hat brims low, eyes narrowed, trigger-fingers itchy.

Other than them and her, the main thoroughfare of Tumbleweed Gulch was empty.

Mary licked her dusty lips in anticipation of the burst of violence to come. She could feel it, like a cold wind in autumn, like the first snowflake of winter, like a cold drink in summer. It was her predilection. She knew when Death trod near.

The high, long cry of an eagle pierced the air like an icy wind off the mountains in the east.

The man in the black vest and white shirt, the rugged blue jeans and worn leather hat, turned to the side like he was at the evening Saturday social and ready to dance. He drew his pistol quick as a rattlesnake, lifting it only enough to clear it from the holster, shooting from the hip. Sheriff Daniel Justice was the fastest man Mary MacTavish had ever seen with a pistol.

His opponent, a whisky-soaked drifter who’d beat on a couple of the girls at the saloon was just raising his weapon when Sheriff Dan shot him dead. The drifter fired his weapon reflexively as he died, his bullet burying itself harmlessly in the street.

Mary felt a shiver of excitement as the man died, his life bursting from him through the hole in his chest. She took a deep breath, tasting the whisky soul as it cast about for what it once had, seeking, striving, starving to stay here even as it dissipated.

The fight over, the street safe, Mary dropped from the boardwalk to the dusty dirt street and hurried to the dead man. She knelt at his side, feeling the last of the life drain from him. She took a deep breath, feeling the death settle about the place. She smiled a little.

“Ms. MacTavish. Awfully quick with the last rights there, darlin’.”

Mary couldn’t help the shiver of pleasure Sheriff Dan’s voice gave her. It was deep and earthy and smooth. His thick white moustaches and desert-weathered face and bright blue eyes were the most handsome in the whole tiny town of Tumbleweed Gulch. Mary blushed and looked away.

“Not as fast as you on the draw, sir.”

Sheriff Dan chuckled.

Mary stood and brushed the dust of the street from the knees of her skirts.

“You know your pa don’t like you being out during a shootout.”

He nodded behind her at her father’s chapel. Mary turned to look, her father emerging, looking at her, thin lipped with worry and frustration. All around them, the denizens of Tumbleweed Gulch emerged to see their sheriff had won the day again.

Mary turned back to the sheriff. “Daddy never wants me to have any fun,” she pouted.

Sheriff Dan laughed. “Fun? Shootouts aren’t fun, darlin’. They’re scary.”

“But, you don’t get scared, do you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because it’s my job.” He looked behind her again. “I think your pa wants a word with you.” He tipped his hat and made his way to the sheriff’s office. The folk of Tumbleweed Gulch nodded at him solemnly. Mary watched his backside in its tight, worn jeans.

“Mary.”

She turned at her father’s voice. Father Rory MacTavish was a tall, thin, severe-looking man, but he brought the comfort of God to the people of Tumbleweed Gulch, and they loved him for it. He gave her a stern look.

“It’s dangerous to be out during a duel.”

“They weren’t aiming at me, daddy.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. If these God-fearing folk found out what you are, they’d string us up before you can say necromancer.”

Mary sighed. “Sorry, daddy. I just… I can feel when death is near. I’m drawn to it.”

“Thus you must be ever vigilant.” He nudged the dead man. “And this wretch? Did his soul leave this mortal coil for Hell?”

Mary felt her throat catch. She’d been so wrapped up in the anticipation of death and watching the sheriff’s backside that she’d neglected to focus on the soul. She’d felt it, confused and hungry, but had it moved on or lingered? She shook her head to clear it and closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath, tasting the death and seeking the soul.

She could feel it—angry, starving, vengeful. She tried to touch it with her power, the dry, dusty power of the grave, but it twisted and snarled away.

“No.”

Father MacTavish sighed and shook his head.

“I’m sorry daddy. I… I should have been paying better attention.” She sniffled and felt the beginning of tears peak at the corners of her eyes.

“Save those tears, darling. We’ll need them.”

Father MacTavish took his daughter by the arm and led her back to the chapel. As they passed through the sanctuary, Mary caught the gaze of the savor, suffering upon Her cross, and silently asked Her forgiveness. Behind the chapel was the small house where Mary and her father lived.

“Go to your room and prepare, darling.”

Mary nodded. In her bedroom, she slipped out of her dress and hung it in her wardrobe. Her boots were placed carefully in the bottom of her wardrobe. Her stocking she rolled neatly and stowed in their drawer. Her panties, with their fancy elastic waistband, she folded neatly and placed next to her stockings. Left in her chemise, she closed her wardrobe and went to her vanity where she opened a drawer and withdrew a white, silk handkerchief. Finally, she placed her pillow in the center of her bed and lay upon it so that her bottom was thrust up. Thus readied, she waited for her father.

Father MacTavish entered shortly, carrying the thin rattan cane he kept for such occasions. He knelt at her bedside, closed his eyes, and lowered his head.

“Heavenly Mother, forgive our trespass, our sin, our distraction. What we do now we do in Your name and, if you’ll give it, Your blessing. Amen.”

“Amen,” Mary whispered.

“You know this pains me,” Father MacTavish said.

“Stay strong, father. We know what must be done.”

It certainly wasn’t the first time Mary had been whipped by her father, but it still startled her to hear the cane cut through the air, still made her shoulders tense and her heart lurch and her eyes squeeze shut. The fire of cane across the flimsy protection of her chemise was God’s reminder. Mary knew God was forgiving. Her mistake this afternoon wasn’t indelible. But Mary had been born with a connection to the dead and the undead and that was a heady power. Father MacTavish, God’s instrument, was her reminder never to forget that. So, though the can burned, Mary welcomed it even as she winced at the second cut of cane through air.

Mary prayed as her father whipped her. She clasped her hands and rested her head upon them and let her tears fall upon the white silk handkerchief she’d placed upon the bed beneath her face. She did not squirm or buck or kick her feet or scream. She held perfectly still so that her father’s cane would not stray from the mark, no stroke would be wasted, no tear that might be shed would instead not.

When he was done, Father MacTavish left Mary to finish her crying.

When she was done, Mary stood, put her tear-soaked handkerchief into a delicate glass jar on her vanity, sealed the jar, and took it to the front room where her father knelt in prayer. He stood, took the jar and placed it on a shelf with three others just like it.

“You have a few hours before sunset,” her father said. “Would you like to eat?”

Mary shook her head. “It will be better to fast. I’ll go now and pray for guidance.” She crossed back into the chapel and into the narrow, spiraling staircase to the belfry. In the stone room housing the large brass bel, Mary took her usual seat at the window gazing out over Tumbleweed Gulch. Her bottom on the bare stone throbbed, the cool stone against her burning skin a reprieve and an exacerbation.

Her heartbeat throbbed, her skin tingled, her stomach ached, and all through it, Mary prayed for strength to whether what came next, for though her father’s whipping had hurt, the mournful wailing of the ghost along the streets of Tumbleweed Gulch was worse.

She let the pain of it all fill her, consume her, draw her away from the tangible mundane into the space between. She let her body drift away as the sun set, let her mind fill the town as night awoke, let the ghost of the man sense her as she readied to receive it. The power of death, of necromancy, of dry dusty bones scoured by sun and sand filled her.

The ghost of the man howled with fury and fear.

She beckoned it.

It cursed at her, but the curse did not hold.

She cajoled it.

It hurtled toward her.

She welcomed it.

The ghost entered her like a hurricane, driving her sanity to its edges. It filled her with heat of fury, bursting her senses. It rocked her soul, but her soul was strong. She could take it. She let it pound at her, she accepted it, she drank from it. The ghost drove her up and down, back and forth, and she held it tight and rode its fury until it spent itself.

Then she took control.

Mary MacTavish, Necromancer of Tumbleweed Gulch took hold of the wayward soul and took a deep breath. The ghost of the man paused in its fury, confused, then terrified. It scrambled back, trying to escape her, to reverse its possession of her. It cried out, but Mary’s mercy would not let it loose, would not condemn it to wander the world in agony forever. Instead, she wrapped it in her power. The ghost screamed and Mary’s back arched, her breath caught, her hands clenched to fists.

And then it was gone.

Mary lay on the floor of the belfry, exhausted. She tried to push herself to her feet but failed. She rested her head on her arm, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. In a moment more, she’d try again.

She woke with a pillow under her head, a blanket over her shoulders, and the smell of peaches and oatmeal in her nose. Mary smiled and sat up with the sun peaking over the dusty, desert horizon. She thanked God for Her guidance before thanking her father for the rest. The bowl of oatmeal with sliced peaches was still warm and she ate it quickly. Her body ached with the exorcism, her bottom with the whipping, but she felt good.

~*~

As the evening sermon closed and the folk of town filed out, Mary kept her seat. Her father, still at the lectern, flipped through his Bible. When they were alone, he looked up at her.

“Well?”

“You flubbed a line,” Mary said. “It’s ‘Vengeance is mine Forgiveness likewise’ not ‘Forgiveness also’. “

“That’s a bit pedantic, sweetie.”

She shrugged. “You asked.” Mary smiled at her father and he chuckled.

They were interrupted by the squeak of the chapel door. Mary stood and turned to find Sheriff Dan, looking about uncomfortably, hat in hand. Sheriff Dan rarely came to the chapel.

“I’m sorry, you’ve missed the service,” Father MacTavish said.

Sheriff Dan cleared his throat and walked down the aisle toward them. “Pardon, Father. I’m not much of a religious man.”

“That’s all right. God’s the understanding sort. She loves you anyway.”

Sheriff Dan cleared his throat again, obviously uncomfortable.

Father MacTavish chuckled. “I’m teasing you, Sheriff. What can I do for you?”

Sheriff Dan shook his head. “A priest with a since of humor.” He flicked his glance from Father MacTavish to Mary and back. “Actually, I was… that is…”

Mary felt a slow blush climb her cheeks and didn’t know why. She’d never seen Sheriff Dan uncertain before and it made her feel… well she really wasn’t sure what it made her feel.

“I’ve come to ask your permission, Father, to escort Mary to this evening’s dace at O’Riely’s barn.” He looked at Mary. “If you want to that is.”

Mary felt her breath catch. She wanted to say yes, to shout it to the Heavens, but she couldn’t speak.

“Well, if you’re not interested, that’s fine,” Sheriff Dan said.

“Oh no, she’s interested,” Father MacTavish said, a mischievous grin, not at all appropriate for a father, or a Father for that matter, hiding about his eyes.

“I can speak for myself, thank you,” Mary said.

“Well then,” said her father, “by all means.”

Mary looked at Sheriff Dan and his bright blue eyes stole her breath. Again. “I… that is… very much like to. I would. Like to, that is. With you.”

Sheriff Dan smiled, his sun-worn face beautiful as the desert. Mary thought she heard her father snicker.

“Well then,” Father MacTavish said. “By all means, Sheriff, you have my permission. Just remember, she’s only sixteen years old, and God listens to me.”

Sheriff Dan grinned and nodded. “I’ll be sure to keep her out of trouble, sir.”

Mary’s bottom tingled at the thought.


End file.
